


Fever Dream

by SinnamonSpider



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Schmoop, Sibling Incest, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic, Underage Sex, Weecest, Worried Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 09:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9812858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: Sam can dress a bullet wound, kill a werewolf, work with salt and iron and silver and spells. But for all of Dad's training, he doesn't know how to bring down a fever.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

Sam can hear it in Dean’s voice, the slight deepening of pitch that makes it sound like he’s just woken up, but it’s three in the afternoon and they’ve been up for hours. Dean is sniffing every few seconds, because he is apparently too much of a child to blow his damn nose. Sam locates a battered box of Kleenex somewhere in the backseat and slaps Dean in the side of his head with it, earning a glare from Dean - a glare coming from fairly glazed eyes, Sam notes - and a bark from Dad about goofing around while he’s driving.

His trouble is rewarded when Dean blows his nose noisily into the tissue, emerging with a gutteral cough. Dean twists in his seat and stuffs the dirty tissue into the crew neck of Sam’s t-shirt. Sam squawks in protest, fishing it out and hurling it ineffectively back into the front seat, where it flutters wetly to land on John’s leg. The two boys stare at the offending object with trepidation, and both of them cringe as the car screeches to a halt on the side of the freeway.

“Dean, get in the godamned back seat, for Chrissakes. You wanna act like a child, you get to sit where the children sit.” This tersely issued order humiliates both sons neatly, and Dean is considering arguing when he catches his father’s eye, and instead he opens the door and climbs out. He would slam the door shut, but he wouldn’t put it past Dad to drive off and leave his ass on the side of the road. He opens the passenger side back door and shoves Sam unceremoniously across the seat. “Jesus, Dean, couldn’t you just go around?” Sam grouses, fighting to regain his spot. They tussle in the back seat until John roars “Enough!” and stomps on the gas, throwing both of them against the front seat with the force. “God, what is wrong with you two?”

They’re tired, they all are, tired and frustrated and they’ve all spent too much time cooped up together. Dean is coming down with something and Sam is fifteen and sour all the time and John has never had a long fuse on his temper and according to the sign they just passed, the next motel is another 60 miles away.

Dean hunkers down in the corner of the seat, slouched against the door, his glassy eyes reflecting the passing streetlights. He puts a booted foot on the seat, and Sam glares at the foot and then at it’s owner, but he doesn’t say anything. Dad is already too edgy.

The car continues along the freeway and Dean is soon asleep, his head resting on his bunched-up jacket. Sam is absorbed in his battered copy of _To Kill A Mockingbird_ , which he’s already read a couple dozen times, when a soft sound, barely audible over the rumble of the engine, draws his eyes up from the faded pages.

Dean is shivering visibly, his arms crossed over his chest. As Sam watches, he shudders again, a slight whimper issuing from his lips. Sam snorts good-naturedly. He snags a mostly-clean army-issue blanket - one of the scratchy ones they both hate - off the floor of the car and scoots across the leather seat to drape the blanket over his brother, tucking it firmly around his quivering form. Dean cracks an eye and lifts the corner of his mouth in a grateful smirk, which was an expression Sam would have thought a contradiction in terms had he not grown up with Dean. He shoves idly at Dean’s boot as he slides back into his own seat, feeling oddly embarrassed at being caught.

Sooner than they should be, thanks to John’s lead foot, they’re pulling into the dimly lit parking lot of the motel. Dad cuts the engine and gets out, heading inside to get them a room. Sam shakes Dean, who comes awake in classic hunter fashion, alert and dangerous with a knife in his hand. “Relax,” Sam pushes his arm away, noting the scorching temperature of his skin. “We gotta unpack.” Dean closes the switchblade, cursing softly as he nicks himself. His hand is shaking.

They emerge from the car into a light drizzle and Dean curses louder now as he wrestles himself into his jacket. They grab the duffles from the car and jog across the wet gravel of the parking lot to the room John had just entered.

“They’re outta cots,” John says as they come inside, shaking off the rain onto the threadbare carpet. “You boys’ll have to share.”

Dean mutters something, but Sam is thrilled. He’s getting too lanky and tall to cram himself into a rickety motel cot, and the luxury of being able to stretch out fully in an actual bed is not to be missed. He smothers a grin as John opens his duffle and throws Sam a can of salt.

Once their usual precautions are set up, John zips up his coat. “I’ll be back. Going to scout out the town. You both better get some rest.” His eyes linger on Dean, who is swaying dangerously near the postage stamp-sized table. “We have an early start tomorrow.”

He leaves, and Sam locks the door behind him and lays the salt line, thick on the hideous brown carpet. He chucks the can back into John’s bag. Dean is still standing idly, and Sam nudges him. “You should take a hot shower. Try and sweat it out.”

Dean focuses down at him blearily and snorts in derision. “Yeah, like the water will be hot enough to do anything.” Sam shoves him toward the door, slightly alarmed at the little effort it takes. He crosses the room and retrieves Dean’s shower kit from his duffle, turning to throw it but reconsidering almost immediately. He doesn’t really want to wallop Dean in the face, and Dean’s reflexes are likely sketchy at the moment. He heads back and propels Dean the rest of the way into the bathroom.

“If you start to drown, gurgle for help,” Sam encourages him, closing the door as he leaves.

“Very helpful advice!” Dean shouts back, the bite in his tone lessened by the sneeze that echoes in the enclosed space.

Sam flips through station after station on the fuzzy television, not really watching the programs change. His ear is half-tuned to the sound of the shower running, and he’s just about to break down the bathroom door, convinced that he’ll find Dean unconscious in the tub, when the spray cuts off. He relaxes, but not fully, until Dean is out of the bathroom, a billow of steam following him. Dean’s skin is pink from the heat, but his eyes look worse rather than better, and his voice is thick. “That didn’t do addythig,” he grouses, sounding more like a pouting child than a grown-ass man.

Sam shrugs from his position, cross-legged on their bed, idly tossing the remote from one hand to the other. “Didn’t hurt,” he reasons. Dean cuts him a sour glance from the corner of his eye as he tugs sweatpants out of his bag. He pulls them on under the towel slung around his hips, and leaves the towel in a sodden heap on the floor. Sam rolls his eyes, climbing off the bed and snatching up the towel. He hangs it neatly on the rack in the bathroom.

When he returns, Dean is shivering on the bed, an open beer clutched in his hands. “Seriously, dude?” Sam asks incredulously. “Alcohol is the last thing you need.”

“Never heard of a hot toddy?” Dean challenges, raising the bottle to his lips.

“Too bad that’s brandy, not beer,” Sam argues. “And it’s also _hot_ , you moron.”

“Close enough,” replies Dean. His shivering is making the bed creak. Sam grabs his own shower kit from his bag, as well as a hoodie which he lobs at Dean, snickering as it lands on his head.

“Die screaming,” Dean offers cheerily from beneath the garment, but as Sam turns to close the bathroom door behind him, he is rewarded by the sight of Dean’s wet head emerging from the hoodie’s neck.

Sam showers quickly, more out of necessity than efficiency. He had told Dean to take a _hot_ shower, he admits sourly. Decidedly less steam accompanies him on the way out of the bathroom.

The TV is still on, but Dean is curled on his side on top of the covers, asleep, his beer bottle on the nightstand. Sam picks it up to put it in the tiny kitchenette, but the weight of it is unexpected in his hand and he sloshes a bit out onto the floor. It’s nearly full.

It’s nearing one in the morning and Dad isn’t back yet. Sam triple-checks all the locks and salt lines, and turns the TV off. He eyes the second bed appraisingly. Dad likely won’t be back tonight, and he doesn’t really want to catch whatever Typhoid Dean is exhaling in a sinusy snore. On the other hand, he doesn’t relish being turfed out of bed by his drunken father at 4am. He walks around to the other side of the bed Dean is in, tugging the covers out from under his comatose brother’s body as gently as possible. Dean shifts in his sleep, curling up tighter. Sam can see his body still trembling slightly. Sam rolls his eyes and scoots closer, pressing his back against Dean’s in an effort to lend him some body heat.

 

Sam comes awake all at once, his senses triggered by something. He sits up in the bed, eyes straining in the dark room. The bed next to theirs is still empty. The salt lines, faintly pale in the gloom, are undisturbed. The only sounds are muffled noise from the TV in the next room - and Dean.

He is still lying curled on the bed, but the other way, facing Sam. In the dim green glow of the alarm clock on the nightstand, Sam can see him shudder. He reaches out and lays a gentle hand on Dean’s forehead. It’s alarmingly warm, and as soon as he makes contact, Dean’s eyes open blearily. “Sammy?” he croaks, a cough forcing its way out of his throat.

“You’ve got a fever,” Sam informs him quietly. Dean snorts, which turns into another hacking cough. “Yeah, no shit,” he says, passing a hand over his mouth. “Can’t seem to get warm.”

Sam slips from the bed. “Lemme see if we have any meds,” he says, padding across the carpet. Dean buries deeper in the covers. “Don’t think so,” he issues from the depths. “Dad used the last of it to recover from his bender last time.” Sam scowls into their medicine bag. Predictably, he doesn’t find anything useful. “Damn Dad,” he mutters. He pauses to fill a glass with water, leaving it on the nightstand on Dean’s side, before climbing back into the bed. He settles himself close enough to provide a bit of warmth, but Dean worms across the mattress, his back to Sam, pushing closer, his movements making the springs squeak.

“Dude,” Sam says in mild protest, but he plays the big spoon, curling his body around his older brother, enveloping him in body heat. Sam tucks his hand into the pocket of the hoodie, arm slung across Dean’s waist. “If you say anything, I will murder you,” Dean threatens, and Sam snickers. They drift off together, as close as lovers.

Sam wakes with a jolt for a second time. The clock tells him that it’s just past 4am. Dean is breathing noisily through his sinuses, and Sam isn’t sure what woke him until Dean shifts in his sleep against him. The contact of their bodies has given Sam a stunning hard-on, which is pressed firmly against Dean’s lower back.

“Shit,” Sam curses under his breath. He tries to disentangle his arm from around Dean.

“S’mmy?” Dean stretches his curled-up legs straight, bringing himself flush against Sam. He twists in the bed, towards Sam, pressing his face into Sam’s neck. “Cold…”

He’s anything but cold - Sam can feel the heat radiating off him, can feel the scorch of his skin where it’s against his clavicle. Sam’s body is still reacting - even more now, with warm breath gusting over his throat and a hand clutching at his hip - but his concern is outweighing his embarrassment. Dean’s fever is alarmingly high and it’s four in the morning and they have no medicine and no car.

Sam wracks his brain. He can dress a bullet wound, staunch bleeding, stitch a gash, splint a break, even put a dislocated joint back into place, but he doesn’t know how to bring down a fever. He can kill a werewolf, a vampire, a shifter, a ghost; he can work with salt and iron and silver and spells. But despite all of Dad’s training, Dean is suffering - maybe _dying_ \- before his very eyes and he cannot help.

He can hear whimpering, like the sound a dog or a small child might make, and he realizes that it’s not Dean making the sound, but himself. His hands come up to grip Dean’s shoulders, pulling him closer, wrapping himself around his brother, helpless to do anything more than hold him close. Their foreheads press together and Sam can feel Dean’s breath on his lips.

“Sammy…” Dean’s voice is slightly slurred. “‘S just a fever, Sammy. ‘M not dying.”

Dean has always been able to read his mind.

“Dean, I - ” Sam’s voice breaks slightly. Even when he’s sick, Dean is always looking out for him. His thoughts are churning, thick with fear and worry, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s pressing his lips against Dean’s.

Dean’s lips are hot and dry against his. His skin is superheated everywhere it touches Sam’s; he can feel it through the hoodie, through his own t-shirt, through Dean’s pants and his boxers. Dean’s body stiffened when their lips met, and just as Sam realizes that he isn’t reciprocating the kiss, suddenly he is. His mouth opens under Sam’s and when their tongues brush, even that feels too hot.

The kiss goes on until they have to break apart or suffocate. They’re panting against each other, warm breath a bit sour from sleep. Dean’s voice is gravelly. “Sammy, what - ”

Sam is in full panic mode now, a dozen emotions clawing at him. “Lemme - lemme get something,” he stumbles over his words. A cold compress for Dean’s forehead would maybe help, and it would certainly get him away from the bed and the kiss and that weird look on Dean’s face. He tries to pull away, but Dean has his hands fisted in Sam’s shirt and he can’t break free.

“No,” Dean says, and one hand comes up to cradle Sam’s face, thumb near his lips, the rest of his fingers spread along the jawline. “What’s going on, Sam?” His touch is still too hot and Sam is scared, scared about the fever and his pounding heart and how much he wants to twist his head so Dean’s thumb is in his mouth and suck on it with a promise of everything else he could be doing with his tongue and teeth and lips. These feelings have come from outta nowhere - _have they?_ a treacherous voice in his head says - and the intensity is shaking him to his core and Dean is still just _looking_ at him.

“Sammy,” and this time it’s not a question and Dean’s voice is like molten lava, burning into Sam like his hand is burning on Sam’s face. “Jesus,” Sam gasps out and then he crashes his mouth against Dean’s for a second time. His lip collides with Dean’s top teeth and he can taste blood, coppery and sharp on his tongue, but the taste is suddenly gone, licked away by Dean’s tongue moving firmly against him. It’s a messy, sloppy kiss, like two kids who don’t know any better, which is marginally untrue for Sam and extremely inaccurate for Dean.

It must be the fever, Sam reasons, somewhere in the back of his mind where he is still capable of reasonable thought. Dean’s brains are probably melting and about to start leaking out of his ears, and Sam should really call 911, fuck Dad’s dumb no-hospitals rule, ‘cause there isn’t any other way to explain Dean’s mouth on Sam’s, his teeth nipping at Sam’s lower lip. There’s no other explanation for Sam learning that the dumbfounded expression on every girl he’s ever seen kiss Dean is completely justified. Sam clearly needs to stop kissing Dean and get him medical attention before he boils like an egg. But he can’t seem to get his arms and legs to cooperate.

Dean breaks away and Sam is sure he’s gone forever, but it’s only to nudge Sam’s chin upwards so Dean can attack his neck, an open-mouthed kiss searing on his skin. Dean’s teeth scrape along the notch at the base of his throat and Sam’s hands are gripping Dean’s head, the brush of short hair like velvet against his palms. He is painfully aware of his erection again, now pressed snugly between them and when Dean rotates his hips with the grace of a dancer, he becomes just as aware of Dean’s erection, pushing against his lower belly and he wonders why they’re still wearing so many clothes.

Sam slides his hands under Dean’s hoodie, smoothing over his flaming skin. His fingers run across Dean’s ribs, thumbs catching on the hard nubs of his nipples and Dean jerks on top of him, moaning against Sam’s collarbone. Dean wrestles away from Sam’s octopus grip long enough to push Sam’s hands aside and pull the hoodie over his head, flinging it onto the floor. He hauls Sam upwards by the neck of his t-shirt and Sam moves with him, allowing the shirt to be yanked off. “I thought you were cold?” he asks breathlessly. Dean pushes him back down, now fully straddling Sam’s hips, his weight heavy on top of him. “Warm me up, Sammy,” he says, coming down onto Sam like the sun setting and Sam can feel his eyes roll back at the sheer sound of _sex_ in Dean’s voice.

Dean’s mouth is back on his throat, his hips are pushing urgently against Sam’s, and the feeling of Dean’s skin against his has Sam digging his nails into Dean’s back. Sam claws his fingers across the heated flesh, wants to etch his marks there like that one girl in Nebraska did, and Dean shivers underneath him, either from the fever or the feeling. Sam is happy to take full credit for this one. His legs come up on either side of Dean’s body to grip him tighter, pull him in harder and Dean responds by biting down until Sam yelps and rocks his hips mindlessly.

Sam feels like he’s the one melting now, with Dean’s boiling body on top of him and the feelings coursing through his veins. He’s falling apart too quickly and he doesn’t want this to end because he doesn’t know what will happen when they come down and have to stare this thing in the face. He needs to take control, but Dean has always been physically dominant. His illness might be the only factor in Sam’s favour.

He waits until Dean has lifted off him slightly, trying to get at Sam’s nipples, and then he flips them over. Now Dean is on his back, looking bemused and maybe a bit dizzy, and Sam is astride him, looking down. Dean is flushed, with fever and with lust, his skin the prettiest pink. His still-glazed eyes are burning up at Sam. His full lips are reddened and swollen. He’s panting and squirming just a little under Sam’s body. He looks drunken and debauched. He looks like a fallen angel.

Sam has never seen such a beautiful sight.

Sam rolls his hips down against Dean, who arches up, eyes drifting closed, chest heaving, teeth biting down into the plush of his bottom lip. He leans forward, curving his spine, to flick his tongue at one pink-brown nipple, feeling Dean’s groan more than hearing it. Dean’s hands are on his hips, pushing him down as Dean pushes up. Sam is still laving attention on the nipple, catching it between his teeth, the rumble of Dean’s growl coursing through him.

Shaking himself free of Dean’s grip, he slides downwards, until his chin is level with the tent in Dean’s sweatpants. He yanks his own boxers off a little awkwardly, tossing them away, and carefully pulls Dean free of his remaining clothing. Dean inhales sharply as he realizes Sam’s intent. “Sam, you don’t have to - ”

“Want to,” Sam cuts him off, wrapping his hand around Dean’s rigid cock, red-hot in his grip. “Wanna taste you.”

“Oh _God_ ,” Dean groans. He tosses his head feverishly against the pillow as Sam licks his lips and wraps them around the head of Dean’s erection. “Jesus, Sammy.”

Dean’s flesh is satin-smooth in his mouth, all heat and hard and salt. Sam takes a few exploratory licks, getting the taste of his brother’s cock. Dean fists a hand in Sam’s hair, craning his neck down to watch. “Holy Christ.”

Sam works his way down Dean’s length, taking him deeper, gathering saliva in his mouth to ease his passage. He swallows around Dean and Dean yelps and thrusts forward, bumping the head of his cock against the back of Sam’s throat. Sam gags and gasps and Dean yanks backward. “Christ, Sammy, I’m sorry, fuck.”

Sam blinks rapidly against the tears rising in his eyes and makes a noise around Dean’s dick, catching his brother’s eyes and trying to convey that he’s okay. Dean tries to withdraw, misreading the look on Sam’s face, but Sam slaps his own hand over Dean’s where it’s tangled in his hair and shakes his head a little. Dean bites his lip in consternation, but the look is wiped from his features as Sam draws him in further again, flattening his tongue on the underside of Dean’s cock.

He works up a rhythm, letting go of his grip on Dean’s hand and wrapping his hand around the base of Dean’s cock, using it as a buffer so he doesn’t go too deep again. He pumps his hand in small motions in time with his tongue and head bobbing. Dean’s head has fallen back onto the pillow, and Sam can feel him straining not to buck up with his hips.

In just a few minutes, Sam feels Dean’s balls draw up flush to his body. The tiny movement and the wordless cry Dean makes is the only warning he gets before warm wetness shoots against the back of his throat. He swallows reflexively to keep from gagging again, drinking down his brother’s come as Dean falls to pieces beneath his touch, hand still fisted in Sam’s hair and whining noises tearing from his throat.

Dean shakes once, twice more before he goes limp, releasing Sam’s head and sinking into the mattress. Sam pulls off Dean’s softening dick and crawls back up the length of Dean’s body, straddling him once more. He takes a few seconds to appreciate Dean’s slack, blissed-out face, still flushed and sweaty, before he grips Dean’s chin. Dean’s eyes flutter open, struggling to focus on Sam, and he gives a weak grin. Sam leans over him, seals their lips together, licking into Dean’s mouth as it opens beneath his. Sam pulls away again with a wet sound, ignoring Dean’s groan of loss, and watches his brother lick his lips, green eyes widening as he realizes he’s tasting his own come from Sam’s mouth.

“ _Sammy_ ,” Dean breathes, pink tongue flashing out to run along his lips again, savouring the flavour of himself, and Sam can’t help the way his hips buck against Dean. “Fuck, Sam, you’re still - ” Dean stumbles over his words “ - let me, I can - ”

“It’s fine,” Sam gets out. He lowers himself to blanket Dean’s body with his own, lining his aching cock into Dean’s hot, sticky crotch. He thrusts his hips against the soft, yielding flesh once, twice, rutting into Dean, who sucks in a sharp breath at the sensation on his still-sensitive skin. Dean digs his fingers into Sam, pulling him down, helping him, a stream of filthy words pouring into Sam’s ears. “Fuck, Sammy, gonna make you feel so good, gonna make you come all over me…”

Dean’s honey-rough voice is making Sam dizzy. He grinds harder against Dean’s body, feeling the slip-slide of his precome slicking between them. Dean never stops talking. “Wanna see you, brother, wanna see your face when you come, let me help you, Sammy, _God_ you’re so gorgeous…” He should have known that Dean would be a talker. Never shuts up at any other time in his life either. Sam latches onto the words and ruts mindlessly, his release hovering just on the edges of his senses.

Dean shifts his hands, leaves Sam’s hips to dig into the meat of his ass, yanking him in tighter on each thrust. One finger slips into Sam’s crack, flirting around the edge of the pucker of muscle and Dean is still talking, “Know you’re close, Sammy, can hear it, I can feel it. Just a little more, give me a little more.” The exploratory finger gets braver, pressing firm against Sam’s opening.

Sam comes with a tortured gasp, spilling out between them, to the tune of Dean’s endless words. “Fuck yeah, Sammy, come for me, Jesus, just look at you.” Dean pulls him in closer, cradling Sam as he quakes, riding the wave of his orgasm against Dean’s body, tears leaking from his screwed up eyes. Dean holds him as he comes down, trying to control his breathing into something that doesn’t make his ribs feel like they’re coming apart, and he slumps, boneless, in his brother’s arms.

He feels Dean press a kiss against his temple, noting somewhere in his rattled brain that Dean’s lips are still too warm. He can feel a sheen of sweat over both of them, but Dean especially, and he hopes it's the fever breaking and not just the activity they've just finished with. Dean sighs deeply, burrowing a little deeper in the covers, tugging Sam a little closer. "Go t' sleep, Sammy," he says softly into Sam's hair, and Sam is too wrung out from worry and lust and post-coital bliss to argue.

* * *

 

They wake up slowly, languidly, still wrapped around each other.

Sam brushes his hand across Dean’s taut stomach. His skin is cool, but tacky with dry sweat and come. Sam makes a face and wipes his hand on the bedspread as Dean snickers. “That’s all you, man, don’t make faces at me.”

Sam stretches up to press his lips against Dean’s forehead, happy that the skin is back to a normal temperature. Dean huffs a breath into Sam’s throat and makes him shiver. He slides back down and takes Dean’s lower lip between his teeth, as Dean hums an appreciative noise and wriggles against Sam’s body.

The doorknob rattles and they spring apart like an electric shock. Sam stumbles out of the bed and has just yanked on his boxers as John comes in, bringing harsh morning light and a whiff of stale beer and breakfast sandwiches. “C’mon, boys,” he says gruffly, setting the greasy bag down on the table. “Time to get moving.”

Dean twists around under the covers, trying to get his sweats back on as unobtrusively as possible. Sam rifles through the bag noisily, trying to draw Dad’s attention. “Which one’s mine?”

“Bacon for you, sausage for Dean,” John yawns. “The extra hashbrown is mine, so keep your mitts off.”

Dean is on his feet, pants on, and Sam hands him the oily sandwich. “S _ausage_ for you,” he says, honey-sweet, and Dean fumbles and nearly drops it. John eyes him critically. “You’re looking better, Dean,” he says, stepping forward to lay a hand on his older son’s forehead. “You sweat out whatever it was?”

“Yessir,” Dean replies, looking past his father to lock eyes with Sam, who chokes on a chunk of breakfast sandwich. “Definitely.”

“Well go take a shower, you smell funky,” John orders, side-eyeing a wheezing Sam, sitting at the table and taking his hashbrown from the bag. “Double-time, I want wheels up in forty minutes.”

Dean wolfs down his sandwich and disappears into the bathroom. Sam cleans up the greasy wrappers and chucks everything into the bin as John drains his coffee. “Forty minutes,” he repeats to Sam, before folding his arms on the tabletop and letting his head drop down onto them.

Sam can hear the shower running and he’s taken two steps towards the door, half-considering joining Dean in the shower - hey, he’s got sweat and dried come on himself too - but thinks better of it. Better not to get too ambitious with Dad here now.

The shower cuts off and Dean pokes his head out with a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around his head. He’s about to call out to Sam when he sees his father slumped across the table and chokes the sound down to a hiss. “Get in here.” Obviously his thoughts were trending the same way as Sam’s, but he wasn’t yielding to any hesitation.

Sam arches an eyebrow. “Thirty minutes,” he argues softly, tapping his watch.

Dean grins. “That’s more than enough time.”


End file.
